


Meeting Someone New

by Zenith931



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11282217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenith931/pseuds/Zenith931
Summary: A first meeting between my original Inquisitor and a friend's.  An alternative universe where more than one Inquisitor exists.





	1. Chapter 1

Kirkwall had a distinctive smell, Lavellan noted as he approached the city. It was a smell of the sea mixed with the smells of bygone eras and the cringe-worthy scent of chokedamp. Somehow, it wasn’t something anyone had really told him about before he ever arrived in Kirkwall. People mentioned the smells of distinct districts of the city, but not the smell of the city as a whole. The smell of the city became something that you associated with the city and either looked forward to it, or hated it as you approached the city. 

At this moment, he almost welcomed the smell of the city. Lavellan had been on the road for weeks travelling from Tevinter. The road had become a character unto itself and he was frankly tired of its presence. He was pretty sure he had road dust in areas of himself he didn’t let anyone but Dorian probe and he was looking forward to being clean again.

Truthfully, his preference wouldn’t involve being in Kirkwall at all; he would have preferred to be in Tevinter, languidly sprawled in bed with Dorian on a wyvern-down mattress. The sun streamed through the drapes, a light breeze danced across their bodies, and the pleasant stupor of post-coital bliss over them. Lavellan snapped himself back to reality, remembering that his next trip to Tevinter was still too far away and instead he was here, in Kirkwall. At least the Free Marches was closer to Tevinter than Ferelden, or even Orlais. Of course, it was still Kirkwall, and while it wasn’t as bad as all the rumors, it still wasn’t where he wanted to be. But he had a plan to concoct and a network to grow with Fenris in this city. They had been working on this plan for a few months between letters and messages between them. The escaped slave was still new to writing and reading and progress had been slow. So Lavellan was here in Kirkwall to put the finishing nails on this grand scheme.

He still wasn’t quite in Kirkwall. He was a few hours out, but the road had turned into the sprawl of derelict homes, ghettos, and seedy markets where those who couldn’t live within the city borders made their home. You were just as likely to find yourself a knife in your back as you are to find some rare, black market goods – so highly likely in both incidences. Because of the latter appeal, these tiny markets were visited by daring merchants and servants from city nobles who needed to have whatever delicacy was next in fashion. These run-down areas were also great places for information from sources which kept out of the guard’s eye – since there wasn’t any guard here. 

Lavellan slapped the side of the wagon and the rickety wagon slowed to a stop. He leapt out and watched as the transport emitted a cacophony of creaks and squeaks as it began to move forward without him. These wagons had been helpful methods of transport on the road once your own two feet were tired, or the horse you had became a burden. You paid money upfront and the wagon moved you between towns without question. It was a great way for an elf to move from the outskirts of Tevinter to the Free Marches without so much as an eye blink. 

Evening was beginning to set in and Lavellan had a brief twinge of regret as he realized he still had a few hours on the road before reaching the comforts of the Viscount’s Keep. He had stated to himself he wanted to get the rumors and explore these unofficial parts of the city on his own, though. He had heard from others that slavers had begun to test the waters in these seedy areas, looking for people which would not be missed to steal away. Whether or not this was true was something Lavellan wanted to figure out on his own and was likely to in a few minutes once the sun went down.

Despite the narrowing light, a few shops still stood open. They were the type of shops that carried discreet “goods” and where one could mention certain code words and receive prohibited products, like lyrium. It was pretty low-quality lyrium, but when you’re an ex-Templar addict, anything was better than nothing.

Lavellan kept his hood pulled low over his face, relying on the heavy fabric to cover his ears and distinctive face. He had travelled like this most of the time and when you kept to the right social strata, no one looked twice. With his fake hand, it even furthered his aim of looking less like the “one-armed ex-Inquisitor” than usual. 

The road ahead turned into a sort of main avenue for some unincorporated market district of Kirkwall. Here, though, the seedier parts of the area made one final stand before giving way to semi-civility. Small alleyways broke off the main thoroughfare and turned into small, cramped markets and courtyards full of the sort of unlawful news that he was interested in. 

Entering one of these sub-markets, he found most of it closed, or in the process of closing. A handful of people milled around, either taking quick glimpses of stalls before merchants shooed them away, or making quick purchases before dark. 

Lavellan crept behind an already-closed stall, and sat upon a crate next to a large sack. He drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around his legs, making a somewhat convincing impression of the sack next to him in the dying light. If anyone did see him, he would only look like one of the many thieves, sell swords, and other criminal sub-groups that many people were rushing to avoid.

He kept his ears open and people-watched the slowing courtyard. A nearby merchant told his assistant to hurry home, but not with too much hurry ‘less he become a target for the Coterie. Was the Coterie becoming more brazen in Kirkwall?

Two dwarves exited past him, discussing where to locate some bizarre product they were looking to buy. They mentioned how the Carta had lately become more and more unreasonable lately.

A plainly-dressed woman twittered to a disinterested man about the prices of star fruit and why they were becoming harder and harder to grow.

Lavellan stifled a yawn, Kirkwall was still the same old Kirkwall, apparently.

Then he spotted two elven servants which rushed past, talking about how they had to rush home before the slavers came out for the night.

So maybe Kirkwall wasn’t exactly the same old Kirkwall. Or did this piece of information only confirm Kirkwall was the same? Either way, this was what he was interested in. He rose from his spot and tailed them for a few stalls, gathering that the slavers weren’t Tevinter so much as they were intermediaries between Kirkwall and Tevinter. Middlemen slavers who stole the cargo and transported them to the next stop in exchange for wholesale profit -- except the cargo in question were people.

He stopped and camped out in another empty stall (almost all of them were empty at this time of day), and sat much like he did before.

The time wore on and he viewed his time squatting in this square as a break in his travels more than a quest for information and gossip. He watched two portly merchants across the square discuss price changes and discrepancies in their books. He hardly had to strain his ears as the night deepened and the area grew quieter.

After a while, four men strode across the square. They were armed and armored more than normal travelers and they looked different than mercenaries. Then Lavellan saw the distinctive handcuffs they all had on their belts: slavers. So the dirty rumors were true.

The men strode past deeper into seedier parts of the sprawl. They seemed like they were out for a stroll, but none of them spoke much. They were obviously on the hunt.

Lavellan watched them go by, then jumped down from his perch and followed after, keeping to the shadows and using height whenever necessary.

This went on for a few blocks, the large deserted ghetto was just beginning to sleep and many natives seemed to know the dangers of going out past dark and safely stayed indoors. Lavellan climbed atop a roof and watched as the group entered a smaller square that was cramped with a derelict wagon and several busted crates.

Then he saw her, and from the sudden silence to his side, the slavers had too. A slight, teenage elf darted from a dark hut into the street ahead. She had her blonde hair up into a ponytail and her clothes were the worn, dirty leathers of the common pickpockets and thieves that were as common as lice in the lower class. She had her back towards the quintuple of the slavers and Lavellan on the roof and didn’t seem to notice the group of slavers which quickly moved forward.

He had to have a small bit of appreciation for how quickly and silently the group of four turned into a silent pack closing in on their prey. They hardly exchanged a word amongst each other as they set out to corner the elf.

Lavellan’s eyes caught a tiny glint of light up on a rooftop across the square. He paused his chase after the slavers and watched. He didn’t see the light again, but he saw a shadowy shape shift their stance. He was sure that the other rooftop prowler couldn’t see him, nor could the slavers see either of their surveillers. 

There was a plaintive cry and Lavellan looked down to see two of the slavers had caught up with the girl and had grabbed her by the arms. She had cried out and was struggling ineffectually against them. The other two approached and Lavellan leapt to the ground and chased after.

The two slavers before him went down in a flurry of dagger strikes from Lavellan, he could hear the two other men yelling a few feet away. Lavellan fought off his last victim, dodging a maul and plunging his dagger into the man’s throat. He fell with a gurgle.

Lavellan whipped around to see the elf, one slaver, and the shadowy figure from the rooftops in a skirmish. Both of them seemed to be pulling on the elven teenager, pulling the girl off of her feet and trapping her arms in holds. 

The third slaver was already on the ground, unmoving. Lavellan threw himself into the fray with the remaining slaver and against this shadowy captor. The slaver yelled in surprise as Lavellan’s steel arm cracked against his skull and the man crumpled to the ground.

Whirling around with his dagger, Lavellan tossed himself against the shadowy figure who had the elf by the arms. The figure tossed the elf to the side and parried Lavellan’s dagger, grabbing the weapon and twisting it out of his hand. His former-weapon wielding hand then became a weapon against himself as the figure twisted his hand the wrong way and effectively halted the ex-Inquisitor in his steps.

Lavellan swung out with his metal hand at the figure’s head. Their hand darted up to parry, but only softened the blow from his metal limb as it struck them. The figure fell to the ground and he pounced after. Before he beset his prey, the figure tumbled back onto their feet with all the grace of a gymnast and pointed his dagger at his face, mere inches from his eyes. 

Lavellan stopped in his tracks, he glanced to the left, hoping to see the young elf running from her would-be captor. Instead, the teenager had look of condescension and mild disgust upon her face, like every teenager he had seen before. His eyes flicked to his opponent, who still held a knife and he realized, I’ve made a huge mistake. 

As if the figure had heard his mind, it answered with a feminine voice, “Everyone makes fatal mistakes…”

Lavellan’s muscles tightened, so this was it?

The figure continued, “Luckily, your mistake isn’t fatal today.”

Lavellan didn’t dare move an inch as he regarded his feminine opponent. The moon had risen and cast down cold light so he could see clearly that a brown-haired human in dark leather armor still held his own dagger at his eyes. She had the smallest of smirks on her lips and her eyes were narrowed in some absurd cross of humor and calculation. 

Her head tilted slightly, “Are you some type of benevolent good-doer? Here to save my colleague from harm?” She asked mockingly.

The elf giggled a bit at that. The human lowered the weapon pointed at his face and she motioned a little for him to be at ease. 

Lavellan was very much not at ease. In attempting to do something good, it seems like he stepped in a pile of halla dung. How was he going to get himself out of this one? What were an elf and a human doing working these kinds of areas anyway? Some type of thievery? He stood still evaluating his options around him.

The woman looked at the dagger she had disarmed from him, “Tevinter make. You’re a long way from home.”

Lavellan hadn’t responded before and he wasn’t about to start now. The human didn’t seem to be bothered by his silence. She flipped the dagger to the elf who secreted it away in her armors. Lavellan almost croaked an objection. That dagger didn’t have any special meaning to him, but he had pilfered it from someone in Tevinter before he left. It was some obscure reminder of his new residence with Dorian.

He glanced over at the woman, then back to the elf, who had vanished. The woman plotted around the deserted area and poked at a few of the slavers, admiring his handiwork. 

“You’re also quite proficient at murdering slavers.” Her head turned away from him to look over at another corpse and he thought he saw an opening, possibly to dash her head with his replacement hand again. He inched forward, then froze as her eyes locked onto him again. There was a bit of humor in them. “I, too, like that flavor of misconduct.”

Lavellan lowered his arm from the miniscule inch or two it had been raised, “What?” He finally squeaked out, not sure if he heard her right. He had been focusing so much on his escape that he didn’t seem to believe that it wasn’t needed at this moment.

“So you aren’t mute! What a surprise!” The woman proclaimed with a bit of a laugh. Her tone was one that he had heard several times out of Dorian. The similarity made him a little suspicious. “Murdering slavers is a habit of mine. They’re sprouting like weeds recently.”

A lot of things rushed through his mind, the slave network he was organizing with Fenris being the primary thing. Was that city elf colleague of hers an escaped slave? His eyes narrowed a little suspiciously, “Do you know Fenris?”

“Broody elf, white hair, shiny tattoos?”

He nodded in reply.

“Not at all.”

Lavellan looked at the woman with a bizarre look. She laughed and offered an explanation, “I’ve heard of him. I do not know him, though.”

“I think I have someone you should meet.”


	2. Anxiety Breaks with Song

Lavellan paced across the room, his feet beating a steady pace into the floor. An area rug was draped across the hard wood floor, it turned his staccato pace into a “clomp clomp clomp thud thud thud clomp clomp” as he crossed it. 

The sun had fallen a few hours ago and, while he didn’t expect Fenris to stop by soon, he was still anxious about the pending encounter. Lavellan’s mind had a way of turning these things into the worst events he could possibly think of, which made his anxiety worse, which made the awful possibilities worse… it was a negative feedback loop that he didn’t know how to interrupt. How could he possibly explain to Fenris that this bizarre human he met slaughtering slavers could possibly assist in their cause? This woman was unknown to him, but he saw her killing slavers, and had a young elf… apprentice? Lover? He wasn’t sure, but it all struck him as odd, but somehow familiar. Maybe she could help with their plan in secreting slaves out of Tevinter. Or maybe she was a hidden Tevinter agent looking to betray us all. No, that was more anxiety interrupting his internal monologues…. Or maybe it was a hidden intuition? 

Lavellan shook his head from the warring thoughts and stared out the window as he paced by, his steps not even breaking stride as he saw a guard patrol by in the twilight gloom. 

What would Fenris even say? That elf seemed more aggressive and suspicious than the elf was sometimes aware of. Would he react favorably to the idea of a human helping in their plans? Maybe he’d walk right out and refuse to talk to Lavellan again. Maybe he’d attack the other elf, his lyrium tattoos blindingly bright… 

Lavellan shook his head again as his anxiety exploded off on a tangent of paranoia. What little solace he found was that he didn’t actually tell this strange woman much. He had mentioned a business contact he wanted her to meet and that it involved something involving elves. She had agreed to at least meet Lavellan’s contact with as little information as he provided. He could only imagine the theories about this scenario that were going around in her head. Her eyes worried him, though. She reminded him of himself in a way that her eyes always seemed to be looking around, noticing things; they seemed to be constantly observing everything, even things she wasn’t looking at. It was by this method he knew she was a rogue like himself. It seemed that was all he really knew about her.

She seemed nonplussed by whatever paranoid notions were parading around in Lavellan’s head that caused him to pace frenetically. She was lounged in a chair, her legs up on a table, and a guitar in her hands. She strummed it with different chords in no real melody that Lavellan could recognize or put together. The table in this room at the inn in Kirkwall had evidently seen better days with the stains of wine splattered across the top. But the construction was sturdy and didn’t wobble.

Aren’s head lifted and watched the Dalish elf for a moment as he paced, “You’re going to wear a hole in the floorboards.” She intoned dryly.

Lavellan didn’t respond, but he paused in his pacing and looked at the human woman with an unreadable expression. He let a pause stretch on, wondering how she’d react to the discomfort.

She gave no intonation that she even understood what he was doing and didn’t seem bothered by the silence. She gamely continued her statement without acknowledgement of his silence, “Do you know any Kirkwall songs? I like to pick up a few from whereever I visit.” Lavellan looked at her with a perplexed expression. She continued on, “You could hum a few bars. Or are they tavern songs? Sing a few lines.” 

Lavellan gaped at her for a minute, “I don’t sing.”

“At all? Or you don’t like to?” Lavellan frowned as he contemplated his answer, the woman continued on, “Sit down, you’re making yourself more nervous with your pacing.”

Her sentence’s tone wasn’t quite commanding, but he found himself compelled to sit anyway. He sat stiffly in a chair across the table from her. He didn’t feel comfortable at all, but he understood the logic in that his nervous energy wasn't helpful in lessening his anxiety. 

She handed Lavellan a half-full bottle of wine that she had been drinking. It was a cheap red wine from Markham, one of the only decent options in drink at the inn if you didn’t like the swill Kirkwallers presented as wine. “Here. Have a glass.”

Lavellan scowled in defiance at her, but found his hand grasping the wine bottle and himself taking a swig. She had some bizarre voice effect that just seemed to make his limbs move of their own accord in obedience. He took another swig, but mindfully this time as if he was forcing his will back over his body. The alcohol numbed his thoughts and slowed them down, but he fought them regardless. He watched the woman as she turned her gaze back to her instrument and narrowed his eyes a little as the only outward indication of distrust. As if the thought of suspicion was a prompt, he rummaged around in his pockets, searching for something in their cavernous depths of random baubles. He procured a bit of spindleweed and carefully stuffed it down the neck of the wine bottle. It was a Dalish trick that seemed to neutralize the alcohol in the drink. He swirled it around carefully in the bottle. He caught Aren's eyes watching him and he stared back in a bit of defiance, as if he expected her to object. She didn't say a word and her expression remained unreadable. 

“Do you know this song?” Aren asked, she played out a melody from the instrument. It was a beautiful tone that he hadn’t heard of before, but there was something about the melody’s composition that seemed wrong. Lavellan shook his head in response. Aren’s fingers stilled across the strings, “It was an Orlesian song anyway. I’m not surprised.”

Lavellan quipped, “That explains why I don’t know it.”

She laughed a little in response, “I’m sure you’ve been to Orlais. But I don’t blame you in not spending time around the nobles to listen to their music.” She shifted her hands on the instrument, “What about this?” 

The guitar emitted a series of beautiful chords that were haunting, but a bit simple. Then the woman sang and her normally humorous voice rose into something below a soprano. Lavellan tried to remember what the minstrel in his clan had called it, a tenor? No, that was for men. Mezzo-soprano was the word. Lavellan immediately recognized the song as a Chantry song he had heard in his travels. It wasn’t a particularly bad song, but everything related to the Chantry seemed to be shaded an ugly tone for him. Aren’s voice was pleasing to listen to, though, and he let her run through a few stanzas before he wrinkled his nose.

Aren paused and smiled a little, “That’s understandable. It’s a Chantry song, so I can’t imagine you have a very good impression of any of their songs.” 

Her hands paused over the guitar’s strings as she considered for a moment then continued on with an upbeat melody from a ballad that Lavellan immediately recognized as a dirty tavern song. His face must have betrayed him as Aren’s eyes lit up knowingly as she sang the dirty lyrics. Lavellan couldn’t help himself as his fingers which held the wine bottle twitched. He last heard this song before he left Dorian in Tevinter for the last time. Lavellan and Dorian had both been into their second bottle of wine in the lavish private room as they sang along together to the loud song. Lavellan couldn’t help but grin a little at a particularly tawdry line. Aren continued on with the song, her eyes bright as she sang. She never interrupted or stumbled over herself as she watched Lavellan’s response to the song; she was a natural performer. The song reminded him of some songs that his clan would sing in cheerful crowds at night. The songs were happy and Lavellan had tried to sing them with his clan mates, as if this social endeavor would somehow elevate his standing among his peers. It was an earnest attempt, but tinged with the social awkwardness he felt at the time and the sense of shame he was trying to hide at being different from the rest. It was a bittersweet memory. Lavellan hummed along, mouthing the words to the song as Aren did. He channeled his nervous energy into putting on this facade of relaxing with this strange woman. It seemed to make her happy to see him react positively. So he did because it was easier to watch her this way and helped burn off a little of his anxiety as he waited for Fenris to see what his response would be to the proposition that Lavellan had planned.


End file.
